


Ama's Day is a Holy Day

by Bofur1



Series: Child's Play [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Bad Cooking, Breakfast in Bed, Candles, Child Scheming, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Kid Fic, Matches, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 08:58:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Bofur1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glóin and Óin want to do something special for their Ama on Mother's Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ama's Day is a Holy Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ImGaladriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImGaladriel/gifts).



> Based on your prompt: 'kids! Glóin and Óin try to make breakfast in bed for their mother.' Thank you ImGaladriel!! :D

“Óin, wake up! T’day is a holy day and you are not gonna sleep an’more!”

Óin sat up to the beckons, rubbing his eyes. When the bleariness cleared he found Glóin standing at his bed with one hand clutching his little white blanket and the other stuck in his mouth.

“What do you mean ‘today’s a holy day’?” Óin asked, stifling a yawn.

“T’day’s Ama Day!” Glóin proclaimed. He smirked around his thumb. “I ‘membered and you didn’t.”

Óin sighed, shaking his head. “It’s not a ‘holy day’, Glóin.”

“Tis so!” Glóin snapped, stomping one of his feet on the wooden floorboard. It didn’t make the sharp bang the four-year-old wanted because his stockings were made of thick wool. Another attempt resulted with little more, and Glóin stuck out his lower lip in a pout.

“It’s not a ‘holy day’,” Óin repeated. “It’s a _holiday_ , and why are you waking me up this early anyhow?”

“We need t’ do somethin’ for Ama!”

As he slipped out of bed, Óin considered their options. “She and Adad won’t want to make breakfast; they get lazy on Ama’s Day.”

“Then we’ll break first for them!” Glóin exclaimed, jumping up and down in glee. He slipped on the sleek floor and nearly fell. Óin caught his hand and instantly grimaced.

“First of all, it’s _breakfast_ , and you need to wash; your hand is all slobbery.”

Glóin nodded and scampered off, in a surprisingly obedient mood because of Óin’s cooperation. When he returned with clean hands, Óin nodded approvingly and they crept to the kitchen.

“We can put it on one of these patters like when Uncle Thrór eats,” Glóin suggested, opening a bottom cupboard that he could reach. He began pulling pans out and throwing them into a big mound with strident bangs.

Óin winced and hushed him sternly. “It’s supposed to be a surprise, but it won’t be if you wake them up!” Indeed, he froze at that moment, having heard the creak of their parents’ bed as someone shifted. “Go look, Glóin! Quick now, see if they’re coming!”

Glóin skidded across the floor and peered around the doorframe with wide eyes down the hall. There was no movement that he could see. With a big sigh of relief he returned to Óin shaking his head.

“Okay, here’s that platter Ama uses for holidays,” Óin mused, rubbing said platter so it would shine. “What do you think they want to eat?”

“Jammy biscuits!” Glóin cried delightedly. “Ama likes those!”

Óin caught onto his brother’s enthusiasm and grabbed the wrapped roll of biscuits from the counter. “You get the jam!”

Groaning with exertion Glóin heaved the jam from its place and lugged it to his brother. Setting the platter on the floor, Óin began stacking a precarious pile of biscuits. Carefully he straightened the wobbly heap and then unscrewed the jam jar lid.

“C’mon, Glóin, help me lift it,” Óin grunted. With Glóin’s faithful aid he was able to pour a flood of jam onto the biscuit mound.

Afterward they inspected their job. “It doesn’t look the way Ama does it,” Glóin remarked, disappointed.

“This is _our_ way,” Óin told him firmly. “But we need to make it even special-er...”

“What about her kindles?” Glóin suggested.

Óin’s eyes lit up. “Glóin, you’re so smart! Ama always gets happy when there are candles. She tells Adad they’re romantic.”

“What’s ‘ronamic’?” Glóin asked, bushy little brows furrowing in confusion.

“Cousin Balin told me that Uncle Fundin and Aunt Deallyra say it too. He said it means ‘squidgy,” Óin replied, shrugging. “But I don’t know what that is either. Where does Ama keep those candles, anyway?”

“I think they’re up there,” Glóin gasped, pointing a pudgy finger toward one of the top shelves.

“Then we have to get them!” Óin announced determinedly. “I’ll give you a boost and you grab them.”

This proved a challenging matter, because no matter how high Óin lifted Glóin, he still wasn’t able to reach the shelf with the candles.

“We don’t really need the kindles,” Glóin comforted his brother after the third failed attempt.

“But that’s no fun!” Óin was quite frustrated. “Fine then, if we can’t get to the ones Ama has, we’ll make some of our own.”

Glóin cocked his head. “How?”

“Come with me outside,” Óin ordered, tugging at Glóin’s hand. As they stepped out into the cold dawn, Glóin shivered and pulled his comfort blanket around his shoulders.

“What’re we doin’, Óin?”

Óin crouched on the ground as he replied, “We’re getting sticks.” Glóin watched in bewilderment as Óin collected a number of twigs.

“Are those gonna be kindles?”

“Yep. We can put them on the jammy biscuits like Ama does for our birthdays...”

Glóin squealed excitedly and finished, “...And she can make a wish and blow ‘em out!”

Óin was quite proud of himself for helping Glóin understand. He grinned and pushed Glóin back toward the house. “Hurry, the jam’ll harden.”

Returning to their swaying masterpiece, Óin jabbed the twigs into the top biscuit. “Now we just have to light it,” he mused.

Glóin considered. “Adad doesn’t like to use them—he says they’re too poorgessive—”

“Progressive,” Óin corrected.

Glóin cheeks reddened. “P-P- _Porogressive_ ,” he sputtered out, trying to pronounce it correctly. Finally he growled, stomping his foot again in a huff. “Uncle Fundin gave him matches.”

Óin gaped. “Where are they?”

Glóin gestured to the kitchen drawer that stood just above Óin’s head. With a breath of determination, Óin stood on tiptoe and managed to get the drawer open. He strained, feeling around inside and found a small wooden box. Finally able to wrap his fingers around it, he lowered himself back down with matches in hand.

“How do these work?” Óin asked Glóin as he opened the box and fished out a match.

Glóin snatched the match and the box away from his brother, pleased that he knew something that Óin didn’t. “See, Uncle Fundin does it like this,” he explained, rubbing the match against the box. When it didn’t light, he frowned.

“Let me try,” Óin requested, reaching, but Glóin shook his head stubbornly and leapt away from his brother’s hands.

“No! I wanna do it!” He rubbed the match a bit harder and suddenly it sparked. His hand shaking from the need to be careful, Glóin touched the match down on the twig in the middle of the cluster. It caught and remained lit. Glóin grinned triumphantly.

“Can I do one now?” Óin pleaded. Relenting, Glóin gave him the box.

The brothers each took turns lighting, but they found that if they took too long, one of the other makeshift candles exploded into little ashy shards. They hastily covered the evidence with more jam and by the time they had lit all of the twigs, Óin and Glóin were sticky and black with ash.

“C’mon, let’s take it to them before any more go out!” Óin urged, picking up the platter. Glóin supported the other side before the stack of biscuits slid off. Paying no attention to the gross trail of jam and soot that fell from their pajamas, the sons of Gróin hurried down the hall.

Óin pushed open the door of their parents’ bedroom, shouting cheerfully, “Ama, Adad, wake up!”

Neanélla sat up at her elder son’s voice and brushed her long bangs from her eyes. When she saw the platter and its contents she let out a squeal of shock. “What is that?!”

Hearing the horror in his wife’s voice, Gróin sprang up straight. His eyes bulged from his head and he leapt to his feet on the bed, booming, “Mahal’s name!”

Glóin beamed. “Since t’day’s a holy day we made you breakfast—” Whatever he was going to say was cut off as he tripped over a bunch in the carpet. Óin, in turn, staggered over his brother’s feet, and their platter fell flat to the floor. The carpet burst merrily into flames, eliciting cries of alarm from both Dwarflings.

Gróin leapt into action, lunging from the bed with pillow in hand to beat out the fire. Every time the pillow came down Óin and Glóin yelped, clinging to each other in terror.

Finally, with nightclothes soot-blackened and a smoldering pillow, Gróin turned slowly toward his sons. His face was contorted into a rather crazed expression. All was silent aside from a tiny crackling of the one remaining flicker. Without even breaking gaze with the Dwarflings, Gróin stomped it out.

Óin and Glóin flinched, still holding each other’s arms, expecting their father to start shouting furiously at them. Instead Gróin drew in a breath and turned his back on them. Without a single word Gróin crawled back into bed and buried his face in his fire-roasted pillow.

Óin and Glóin crept silently away.

 


End file.
